


The Blade's Edge

by Teyke



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Japanese, Double Vaginal Penetration, F/M, M/M, Multi, Overstimulation, Samurai, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teyke/pseuds/Teyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has spent the last year searching out a certain legendary swordsmith. Tony has spent the last year drinking, gambling, and trying to forget everything he ever knew of swords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinkonokokoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/gifts).
  * Inspired by [[art] The Blade's Edge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018996) by [shinkonokokoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro). 



> Written for Isariel’s art for the Cap-Ironman Reverse Bang, which you should go check out! 
> 
> Thank you to Inoshi for betaing this. And thank you to Isariel, not only for the inspiring art but also for giving the thumbs up when this unexpectedly started developing a threesome. 
> 
> This fic is set in a Japanese-themed historical AU world with samurai, but it’s not actually Japan.

Steve found Stark in the fourth gambling-house in town. He’d left such a wake of destruction through the other three – sake drunk, fights broken out, and all the bills unpaid – that Steve hadn’t had high hopes for it, but apparently the proprietors here didn’t like to warn their competition about problem customers.

After chasing Stark across what felt like every single one of the six hundred and sixteen domains of the Empire, Steve found himself almost reflexively re-checking the man’s features against the inked portrait in his hand: but they matched. The other house masters hadn’t been taken in by an imposter trading on the name – although they _had_ been taken in by the idea that Stark had any of his fabled wealth to trade, himself. And now he was sitting around a table with another set of hopeful gamblers, all of them glaring at the dice as they rattled and rolled... and came up on another man’s bet, judging by the way one of the gamblers shot into the air with fists clenched, crowing victoriously. “Haa! Pay up, pay up!”

Steve shoved his way through the crowd, keeping a careful hand on his _own_ coin-purse – most decent proprietors didn’t let pickpockets in, but he couldn’t afford to risk it – and got round the table to drop a heavy hand on Stark’s shoulder. For all that he’d never met the man before, he knew exactly how this was about to play out if he didn’t intervene. He had the first-hand accounts of the three housemasters of this and a dozen other towns besides, and they all ended the exact same way.

“He can’t,” Steve said, lending his voice the same amount of iron as his grip. “He’s broke.”

The shouting and the cheering died away, replaced by a rumble of laughter. “Whossis?” another gambler, drunker than most, slurred. “You blind? Tha’ss Stark-samaaa, there!”

Stark, grinning, twisted around to look up at Steve. “Blind _ing_ ,” he said, his voice low and somewhat rough – probably with drink. Stark smelled like he’d been swimming in sake, and not the good stuff, either. “I owe you money, samurai-san?”

“Ah, he’s good for it – he’s a _domain_ -lord...”

“...not too proud to gamble with _us_...”

“Domain-lord or not, according to house masters Sun-san, Creel-san, and Brown-san, you owe about a dozen men money,” said Steve, tightening his grip. “Whom you fleeced here before your reputation could catch up to you from Funato. You don’t have much luck at the gambling table, Stark- _san_.”

That put an end to the laughter. The proprietor was paying attention now, too – no doubt he had a bill to worry about, come the end of the night. Stark’s easy grin didn’t fade, but it had never reached his eyes; those were dead things. “A man like _me,_ samurai- _san,_ has not much need for luck.”

“Debts cannot be paid on _reputation._ ” Steve leaned down, further over Stark – and then, lightning fast, darted his other hand inside the man’s outer jacket. Stark shouted in surprise, and some of the other gamblers at the table made to stand – and Steve pulled his hand out, holding Stark’s purse. He upended it over the table. A single lonely coin rolled out.

“Maaa,” muttered one gambler in the ensuing silence. “He’s got… he’s gotta have more’n one purse…”

“Produce it, then!”

“But… his lands…”

“To which he hasn’t been back since last year,” said Steve. It was a struggle to keep a lid on his temper. Gambling, drunkenness – vices, sure, but not his to judge until they became his problem. Stark had abandoned his responsibilities and run away. “The Thirty-Ninth Domain is managed by Jarvis-sama, now.” Who had been kind enough to grant Steve an audience, and humble enough to insist that he was merely a servant waiting for his lord to return – but in Steve’s opinion, the one who did the work deserved the credit.

“He’s gotta have something – ”

“ – jewelry! Strip him!” This prompted a loud chorus of catcalls, until Stark held up his hands, wiggling his fingers lazily – provocatively, drunkenly, with half a smile on his face. There were no rings on his fingers, nor any bracelets about his wrists. And that drew attention to other facts: no necklaces, no amulets, and his clothing was fine and sturdy, but hardly bejewelled.

The motion of his hands mesmerising, though. Almost enough to cover his other movements, the positioning of his feet, and the way he was leaning forward. Almost – but not quite. Steve pressed him back against the chair before he could wriggle away.

“ – some way to pay – ”

“Here, you _owe_ us, rich man – ”

“ – find something to pay with – ”

That last declaration was said with more ugliness than Steve wanted to deal with. He flipped his cloak back, enough to showcase the wakizashi he carried – proving to the rest of the room what Stark had deduced in one glance. Before the threat had time to make the other gamblers belligerent instead of taken-aback, Steve reached further, retrieving his outer purse. He held it up and let the coins in it clink. “Enough gold to pay his debts. Stark-san comes with me.” He plunked it down on the table in front of Stark, but kept his hand over it. “And enough to cover the drinks.”

That brought a roar and cheering, and hands clapping down on Steve’s hand and arm. Stark, too, stopped trying to squirm out of his grip. He was staring up at Steve with a look of semi-drunken befuddlement instead. Steve took advantage of his newfound pliability to haul the man up out of the chair, muscling him towards the door. Cheering saw them off.

Outside the night air was cool, blessedly fresh compared to the smoky, alcohol-drenched interior. Stark reacted to it like Steve had slapped him with a wet fish, digging in his heels and starting to scrabble again as Steve towed them over to where he’d tied his horse. “Heeey – samurai-san, I don’t even know your name...”

“Up you get,” Steve said, but Stark proved surprisingly slippery – he went up one side of the horse and nearly free back down the other. It was only the high quality of his clothes – lesser cloth would have ripped – that kept him in Steve’s custody. Daisy, thankfully, was a stubbornly amiable horse, and only eyed Steve mournfully for this mistreatment.

“I’ve _never_ seen you before, I can’t owe you money!” Stark was still protesting, as Steve got them situated with Stark in front so that he couldn’t run off. Fortunately, Steve had a few inches on him.

“You owe me a purse,” said Steve, gathering up the reins and digging in his heels. Daisy wuffed, but made no protest as she started forward at a walk. Steve didn’t much like riding by night either, for all that the Emperor’s roads were well-maintained and there was a bright moon. On the other hand, the drunks back in the gambling house should be making a discovery shortly...

The loud cheering and hullabaloo from the house faded. A backwards glance showed that the shadows illuminated behind the rice-paper walls had all gone still – and then they exploded into motion, as shouts and cries of protest rang out. Steve dug in his heels a little harder. By the time anyone managed to make it out of the house – the proprietor, as it happened, shaking his fist – they were away down the road and under the cover of darkness.

“Sorry,” said Stark, still slurring. “If I do owe you money. You w’right. I’m broke. Trade you a favour?” He gave a drunken leer over his shoulder, or at least that was what it felt like. Riding double as they were, it mostly wound up being pressed into Steve’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Steve. “It was just brass.”

Stark stiffened – and then, slowly, began to laugh, the loud, braying laugh of a drunk. “My hero,” he giggled, until he got the hiccups, and then that occupied him until finally he fell into slumber – snoring loudly.

Steve sighed, and kept riding.

 

 

 

Tony woke with a pounding head and a rebellious stomach. He cracked one eye open, and regretted it immediately as sunlight stabbed into his brain. Moving seemed beyond him. On the other hand, after the trick the sunlight had pulled – why, oh _why_ had he been so stupid as to fall asleep outdoors – he was acutely aware that if he did _not_ move, he was possibly going to vomit all over himself.

He groaned. Then he sat up, shoving aside blankets – that was nice, apparently he’d remembered blankets even if he hadn’t remembered _go to sleep indoors you moron_ – and staggered upright. An unknown hand assisted, and Tony yelped, tried to pull away – but his stomach was more important.

After a nearby bush had been suitably decorated, he sat back down on his blankets and squinted up at the hand. It was no longer attached to him, but instead to a tall, broad-shouldered man with a topknot – and, yes, wearing the armour and carrying the swords that went with that topknot. Tony eyed the craftsmanship, which was easier than studying the man’s face – since that face was studying him right back. The armour was painted in unusual colours – there was a five-pointed star on it, not a symbol favoured in modern times, and the setting of the links between pieces hinted at age. The pattern of it tapped at Tony’s brain as if he was supposed to know it – but he couldn’t quite place it. Older work, but not from a smith famous enough to warrant his study. The swords, on the other hand, he’d wager were Reinstein’s work, and he was much better at wagering over swords than dice. Quality, no doubt – and unappreciated by this fellow. Every time the samurai shifted or moved, the swords were moved as an afterthought, not as something that was a part of him. Which was not to say that the man lacked grace… but while he was assuredly a warrior, he was no swordsman.

 _You don’t give a damn about any of that, anymore,_ Tony reminded himself, and eased himself backwards into as much of a sprawl as his aching head would allow. “Soooo. Handsome.”

“Stark-san.”

Huh, that was a liberty. Given the immediately preceding indignities, one that this fellow could have been forgiven even if Tony had been inclined to give a damn, but it did reveal what this man thought of him: exactly what he deserved. That was refreshing. “...I have no idea who you are. Sorry.”

“Rogers Steven,” said the samurai. “And _you_ owe me a debt, for paying off one of your _other_ debts last night, and sparing you a beating.”

Tony laughed, regretted it, and downgraded to a chuckle. “Oh, I don’t know, I could have gotten away.” Maybe. Possibly. Given the hangover this morning, he must have been even drunker than usual... he probably shouldn’t have tried to move on to a fourth gambling house last night. Or had it been men from the third who’d caught up with him? Those last two houses were extremely blurry; they might have been the same one. Surely he’d have known better than to push his luck going to a fourth gambling house in one night.

Well, it wasn’t like it would’ve been the first fight he’d been on the losing side for.

“You still owe me,” said Rogers. Despite his size, the fact that he was armed and Tony was not, and that Tony couldn’t yet see without squinting, Rogers looked more nervous than a man calling in a debt should have.

“Ahh... y’know, if you paid off my debt last night, it probably came up that I’m broke. Sorry.”

“I don’t want money.”

Tony’s heartbeat quickened. There were two options from here. One promised to be a hell of a lot of fun –

“I want,” said Rogers firmly, looking like a man who knew he was about to be refused, “you to make me a pair of swords.”

– the other... not so much.

“...I’m not a sword-smith,” said Tony, slouching further. 

Rogers gave him an incredulous look – one half-confused. “The whole Empire knows better than that.”

Ah, back when he’d _wanted_ to stamp his name all over such things. “Mm.”

Rogers seemed to take this as admission, because he leaned forward, growing more eager. “Rhodes-sama killed Grinz-san in a duel last year. Grinz-san had bound a demon to his swords through black magic, but your swords were more powerful.”

“Rhodey’s a good swordsman.”

“Fury-sama, _the Shogun himself,_ used the knife that you forged for him to cut down the Hydra of the West, a beast which had as many heads as a Yamata no Oroichi and a hide stronger than steel. No other blade could scratch the creature, but with yours he killed it in seven strokes.”

Fury was _not_ such a good swordsman as Rhodey, but he was terrifying in other ways.

“Danvers-sama, Lord of the Hundred and Seventy-First Domain, used a blade bearing your mark when she cast down the Brood Queen, and its spell of purification overcame even its evil – ”

“Okay, that one’s patently not true,” said Tony, shifting to hold up a hand. “Carol trained as a miko, she did the purification all herself.”

Rogers blinked, then waved this away. “The Emperor’s guard use swords personally forged by you. When they defended the White Palace, they faced down a force a hundred times the size of their own. When reinforcements arrived they found the enemy’s swords cut to pieces, and not one of your swords had broken!”

Swords hadn’t been the only thing cut to pieces on that day. Tony studied Rogers’ face. It was open, honest – sincere. He had a hard time picturing it covered in blood. “You already have a pair of swords, samurai-san,” Tony said quietly.

“I do. But... I’m not very skilled with them.” Give the man credit – he didn’t look away, despite how he blushed. “My teacher... he took me in, raised me. Taught me the code of honour, taught me how to fight properly. But I do him little credit with my skill.”

“Then take more lessons.”

“I can’t. He died last year – fighting bandits that attacked our village.”

“Then practice more.”

“Three hours every day. I don’t have the knack for it, Stark-san. Even my teacher admitted that I never would.”

“Then _give up_.”

“I,” said Rogers, leaning forward, “don’t give up.”

Tony snorted, then immediately regretted it when his head throbbed in protest. He sighed. “And I’m not a sword-smith. What I _am_ is far too sober for this conversation. Don’t suppose you brought along any of the sake, eh?”

“Would you make me swords if I said yes?”

“I’d give some thought to the matter,” Tony lied.

Rogers made a face. “Then I wish I’d brought some. Stark-san – why are you refusing?”

“Why are you _asking_? Different swords won’t grant you further skill.” Tony hauled himself upright. Under any other circumstances he’d have gone back to bed, but Rogers had managed to thoroughly foul his mood. Also, they didn’t seem to be anywhere near a town, which meant he had a lot of walking to do if he wanted to be drunk by nightfall.

“Magic swords would,” said Rogers, also standing. “Swords made by a sword- _sage_.”

Reinstein did good work, but it was true: swords designed explicitly for Rogers, rather than chosen for him from a selection, would grant him some small improvement. Any sword smith could provide that to him; any _decent_ sword smith would be able to see it would not be enough. With the man standing it was obvious that his true talents did not lie with the sword; each time he spoke, it became obvious that they never would. It was in how he held himself, how he balanced, and most importantly, how he _focused_ – and how he didn’t. Magic, _real_ magic, would be necessary – and that was enough reason for Tony to deny him. That, and he’d spoken the truth earlier: he wasn’t a swordsmith. Not anymore. If Rogers had asked for a practice-sword, Tony’s answer would have been the same.

“Guess you better go find one, then,” said Tony. He patted himself down. His first purse was gone, but his second was still intact with a few coins present, and the one ring of importance still inside – good enough. Everything else had probably been left behind, but that had happened before and no doubt would again. He struck out in the direction that broken branches told him they’d come from. Hopefully it would lead to a road.

If not, someone with Rogers’ sincerity would no doubt save him.

“Stark-san!” Rogers called after him, but Tony rolled his eyes – gingerly – and kept walking.

 

 

 

 

Steve caught up to him about a mile down the road, when Stark turned around and shouted at him in exasperation to stop creeping along behind him. Which, Steve thought, was rather insulting; he’d just been trying to give the man some space and time to walk off the obvious hangover. In retrospect, Steve probably should have fed the man breakfast before asking him to forge him a set of magical swords – even if he had rescued him last night.

“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” Steve asked him after a while.

“Not a clue.”

A broke, drunken, irascible gambler. Well, if Steve had had illusions about the legendary imperial sword-sage, Hachiman’s bastard smith-son, they’d been broken months ago – when he’d gotten close enough on the trail to stop hearing rumours about his skill at the forge and start hearing tales about how terrible his luck at dice was. He’d resolved to find the man anyway, and now that he _had_ , he wasn’t going to give up that easily. “I can pay, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve enough funds.”

“Mm, from your teacher?”

“No. We used those to rebuild half the village, after the bandits came. But I fought for Maria-sama when Osborn-sama warred against us, and she rewarded me handsomely when she released me from my oath.”

That got him a look of somewhat greater interest, and then Stark snapped his fingers. “Aha. Rogers the Brawler – him of the bound blades!” Stark chuckled, snorted, and burst into full-on laughter. “I should have known – the armour, your habits – oh, that explains the bound blade part! And all those stories circulating had you as a tragic pacifist!”

Steve felt himself flush. _All_ those stories? He’d only heard of one or two – and he hadn’t expected to be well-known this far south. “Well, I don’t like killing.”

But he would, to defend against those who would kill others for lower principles.

“Certainly bashed in enough heads with your bare hands, or so the tales would have it,” said Stark. He snickered again, but this time with a darker edge, and Steve found himself checking his temper before it could begin to rise at the implied insult. In a way, Stark’s words reminded him of Sensei’s endless questions – _so, you want to kill bandits?_

_I don’t want to kill anyone. I just don’t like bullies._

After years of Sensei’s tutelage, Steve knew his own mind. The answer came easily. “Osborn-sama started that war. I don’t much like killing, but I will defend myself, and others where I can.”

“Ah, a loyalist... Osborn claimed he’d caught two assassination attempts that he could link to Maria-san, you know.”

“I know,” Steve said stiffly. That _did_ bother him, because he didn’t know if it was true. Fury-sama must have thought it true, to allow Osborn to war upon another of his sworn domain-lords at all. “That doesn’t condone an invasion that flattens scores of innocent villages.” Both Maria-sama and Osborn-sama were warriors born and bred; Osborn could have challenged her directly to satisfy his honour, but instead he’d chosen a reprisal that had killed hundreds – possibly thousands, if he’d won. The common people were not treated well in Osborn’s domain. For all that Maria-sama sometimes approached problems in a sideways manner, her people did not suffer beneath her hand. 

“Hm,” was all Stark said to that, but he started walking faster after that, and his bearing clearly showed that further conversation would not be welcome. Steve suppressed a sigh, and held his peace. If Stark had been testing him like Sensei used to, then Steve had the idea that he’d failed.

But he’d never been one to give up just because he hadn’t succeeded yet.

The town that they eventually came to, mid-afternoon, was one that Steve had been through only two weeks before. It had been a quick trip, and followed by backtracking his steps, because nobody in it had seen Stark. More fodder for Stark to run his usual scam on them, then, Steve thought gloomily. Although, with only one set of clothes – and those rather ragged after a day of travel – Steve thought that grand claims of being a lord might be met with some skepticism. Still, you didn’t need to be a lord to gamble.

Stark, however, just looked disappointed at the sight of the place, stopping in his tracks with a look of realization. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

Stark glanced over his shoulder, back down the road. “Well, I know where I am now... in fact, this may be a good thing.” He straightened. “I have a friend here. You should come meet her.”

A friend? That was promising. On the other hand... considering what he knew of Stark’s activities during the past few months – if not years; Steve wasn’t sure when the man had abandoned his domain and forge, but he was probably going to need to find out if he wanted to know how to convince Stark to forge the swords – that could potentially be an... embarrassing situation. Steve’s ears heated. But Stark might also just be looking for an opportunity to ditch him, since there hadn’t been one on the road. And if Steve had to track him down _again_ – “Alright.”

“Great! This way.”

The establishment that they ended up at wasn’t what Steve had expected: it was in considerably better repair, and looked reputable enough that even travellers who weren’t broke or professional drunkards might stay. Inside, most of the tables were full even despite the late day – occupied with cards or dice, Steve realized, with a sinking feeling. Perhaps not a professional gambling-house, but clearly Stark had fallen prey to his weakness again...

One of the uniformed servers hurried over  as they entered – young, and in an elaborate enough costume that Steve wondered a bit more about the reputability – but there was neither approval nor fear in the way which she approached Stark with a frown on her features. “Stark-sama! I must beg your gracious pardon – ”

Steve raised an eyebrow. The _words_ seemed deferential, but they were said in a tone that was almost a growl, it was so irritated.

“ – but you know that by order of Hime-sama, you are _not_ _allowed_ to – ”

Stark pouted. “Oh, but I’ve got someone to cover my debts!” He jerked a thumb at Steve.

“She doesn’t care,” the server said flatly.

“But he’s got _more_ than enough gold! – seriously, there won’t be any problems like last time – ”

“Tony! Stop bothering my employees,” called a new voice. It came from a woman standing at the top of the stair to the second level – Steve felt himself blush. Whether or not ‘hime’ was her true status or simply what she demanded her employees call her, the lady of the house certainly had the beauty for the part, and she was dressed to the absolute nines. True, everything she wore would have been shocking at court, but the way in which she wore it... she could have put a room full of princesses to shame.

“Ru-chan!” Stark said, lighting up like the dawn. His smile transformed his face completely; all the creases of strain and wear turning to laugh-lines, the superficial charm melting into true warmth. He hurried over to meet her as she descended, and in a shocking display of impropriety, they embraced before he offered her his arm on the last few steps. “Don’t be so harsh. See, I have Steve-kun here to cover everything, and he has lots of gold – sold his sword to Maria in that last war – ”

Steve straightened, his muscles tensing. “ _What_ did you just call me, Stark-san?”

“An incredibly efficient soldier. Rogers the Brawler.” Stark’s smile did not reach his eyes. The proprietress was not smiling at all.

“I pledged service to Maria-sama for _honour_ , not gold, and I would _never_ stoop so low,” Steve snarled. “Don’t compare me to those mercenaries of Osborn’s!”

“Ah,” said Stark, and his smile was positively acidic now. “So you swore for wages of blood, then.”

“I so swore to defend people, because unlike you I _honour_ the station that I claim – ”

“Enough!” said the proprietress; bellowed, rather, in a voice that could have cut through a crowded market-hall, or a gambling hall in an uproar. This one was not, except for their own fight. Steve might have out-bellowed her in turn, but it would have taken effort.

More to the point, it would have been dishonourable. He should ask Stark to step outside –

The man didn’t even carry a weapon anymore. For all that he wore the top-knot of a warrior, and the accoutrements of a lord, Stark was nothing more than a drunken gambler at the moment. Steve wasn’t fond of duels to the death, but any sort of duel at all against the man would simply have been bullying. One only duelled fellow warriors – and Stark _wasn’t._

He glared at the man.

“Charming as ever, Tony,” said the proprietress. “Now shut up before I have you thrown out.” As Stark made muffled, hurt noises, she pushed him behind her and gave Steve a long, assessing look. “Rogers Steve, eh? A pleasure to meet your acquaintance. I am Fujikawa Rumiko, and most of the businesses in this town are mine.”

“An honour to meet you, Fujikawa-sama,” said Steve, bowing low. He recognized the family name: very old and very respectable, Lords of the Thirty-Fourth domain since time immemorial. She was a long way from home, however; that domain lay far to the north. Did the lord of _this_ domain know that she was here? Surely, they must.

Fujikawa-sama linked her arm through Tony’s, and laid her other hand upon Steve’s forearm; but her grip might as well have been iron as she towed them both toward one of the doors leading off of the main gambling hall. A server halfway intercepted them, but bowed in response to Fujikawa-sama’s very complicated expressions and hurried away.

“Ah, Fujikawa-sama...”

“Don’t argue,” Stark advised, sotto-voice over Fujikawa-sama’s head. “Ah! Onsen!” He must have been here before, to recognize where Fujikawa-sama was leading them.

“Yes, because you stink, Tony. Rogers-san, will I need to have a servant to accompany you both, or can I trust you not to gut him should he say something stupid? Or many things stupid.”

“Anything worth doing is worth doing to perfection – ”

Fujikawa-sama reached out and put a hand over his mouth.

Steve studied them both. They squabbled like old friends – lovers? Well, Fujikawa-sama was a jewel, and if she could look pass Stark’s odious personality, he was... probably not quite so horrible when he wasn’t stinking of the road and every gambling house upon it.

Belatedly, he realized that there was an awkward pause: Fujikawa-sama was still waiting for his reply. Steve bowed swiftly. “I know how to behave myself, Hime-sama.”

Fujikawa-sama laughed softly. “I’m not that kind of princess, Rogers-san – not anymore. Enjoy your bath, boys.” She folded her hands in front of herself, and sashayed off; a server – male, this time – appeared immediately in her wake, laden with towels.

Despite the crowd in the main hall, it appeared that they had the onsen to themselves. After the server had ensured they had all necessary supplies, and shown them where to leave their clothes, he departed with a quick bow. Steve undressed quickly and pulled up a scrubbing stool; as an orphan first and a soldier second, he’d learned quickly when to take advantage of luxury. This soap was only lightly scented, and it made a thick lather.

Steve poured a bucket over his head to rinse off, and turned to offer to scrub Stark’s back – they might not be friends, and the man might be insulting, but he could still be polite. Instead, however, he found himself staring at Stark’s chest. It was a mish-mash of burn scars, like he’d been caught too near an exploding firework – but that wasn’t what caught the eye. On the left side of Stark’s chest, directly over his heart, a character had been branded in:

面目 

It surely couldn’t have been voluntary, unless the man had been incredibly drunk when he’d gotten it done; the strokes were messy, not something done with a pre-forged brand, but like they’d been burned in one at a time. It didn’t look old, either: the scars were healed, but still fresh and raw-looking.

“See something you like, samurai-san?”

Steve jerked his eyes up. Stark had caught him staring; the look on his face was a half-hearted attempt at lewdness, too much bitterness there to make it real.

“Sorry,” said Steve. “I – just thought I’d offer to wash your back.”

Stark snorted, but he turned around and sat, holding out the sponge he’d been using. To Steve’s eye, he didn’t have the build of a professional drunk – no pot-belly, and the corded muscles in his arms still spoke of his ability to wield a hammer at the forge. Stark’s would-be teasing had merit: he _was_ a good-looking man, and if Steve were much younger then that might have been enough, on its own, to cause some embarrassment. Instead, he focused firmly on the bloom of hope that his observations brought: Stark’s physique indicated that the man was still practicing his trade, even if he denied it to Steve. He had to figure out why Stark seemed to so dislike _him_ , then...

He lathered Stark’s back and hair, and then grabbed the bucket to rinse him off – but Stark practically jumped to his feet to grab the bucket away. Water sloshed over onto the floor. There was no challenging stare now; Stark was looking anywhere except at Steve as he emptied the bucket over his own head.

Steve cleared his throat, then handed over his own sponge and sat down to present his back. They finished scrubbing down in silence. 

The onsen itself was large, serene, with heavy clouds of steam to obscure everything. A few giggles occasionally floated over the wall from the women’s side, but the men’s side was deserted. Steve leaned back and let the heat sink deep into his muscles, easing away the pains of travel. A little ways away, Stark did the same.

“When I was young,” said Steve after a time, when the heat and steam had hopefully mellowed them both, “I used to get in fights all the time. Brawling. I had a temper, but I wasn’t a very healthy child... I had problems breathing, often, and my bones broke too easily. My father died before I knew him, and my mother was very poor.”

Stark grunted.

Steve didn’t look over at him. “When I was a little older it started getting me in trouble in the village. The elders would call me a hooligan – mind, they said the same thing about the kids I was fighting. After my mother died there was no one to take me in. I had a few friends... but times were hard, their parents barely had enough for their own families. And nobody with more would take a chance on such a troublemaker. I nearly starved to death before Erskine-sensei found me.

“He was a wandering samurai, then – he’d earned great favour from the Emperor, and he used it to ask for permission to go forth and look for students, to one day found a school of his own. I don’t think he meant to stop in my village, but he did. Took me in as his student. Bought a house, even – put a stop to his wandering.

“He taught me exercises. Gave me food to eat, and restorative potions derived from secret arts he’d learned in the far west. Taught me how to move to not get hit, how to block, how to avoid. And how to punch back, but _first_ – he taught me when, and when not to. I used to get into a brawl for any insult. He taught me to listen better – which words were empty, harmful only to the speaker, and which words were more insidious. He taught me _why_ to fight.”

Stark grunted again, but he sounded a bit less actively disinterested this time.

“When I could finally control myself as well as I could control my body... he began to teach me the swords.” Steve sighed. “Everything I know – for five years, he drilled me. But I never... never did very well. I’m a passable swordsman. Mediocre. I know... it disappointed him.”

“So you want magic swords.” Stark’s words drifted over the water – the man himself had sunk down so low that his mouth was barely above the waterline, and that only because he’d tipped his head back. “Sounds like cheating, to me.”

Steve flushed. “I don’t plan to use it for my own gain. I only... Sensei gave up his dream for me; he spent years teaching one poor student when he had meant to found a school. If magic swords could make me good enough to become a teacher myself, then I could fulfill his dream, even if it were not through my own skill.”

Stark sighed. “D’you remember how this morning I said I wasn’t drunk enough for this?”

“Uh. Yes?”

“Well, I’m definitely not yet any drunker than I was then.” He stood abruptly, sending water cascading down his body – over the welter of scars, and the muscle that still retained form beneath. “And I seem to recall you offering to buy if any were available, so, oh honourable samurai-san – let’s go see what your word’s worth.”

 

 

 

“I’m sorry, Stark-sama, but Hime-sama has given _explicit_ orders – ”

“Stark-sama, please accept our most fervent apologies, but we are simply not able – ”

“It is to our deepest disappointment, but Hime-sama – ”

When Fujikawa-sama had said she owned most of the businesses in the town, she hadn’t been exaggerating. They went all over the village and back again without being admitted anywhere. But just as Steve was beginning to hope that his purse might survive intact, Stark found a taker.

“You can actually pay?” the doorkeeper demanded.

“He can,” said Stark, turning upon Steve with his most charming grin. Washed, groomed, and dressed in fresh clothes – Steve hadn’t questioned where they’d had come from; he’d been too thankful Stark was no longer smelling of stale ale and old vomit – Stark looked roguishly handsome. His beard had been shaved once more into sharp lines that showed the line of his jaw most favourably.

Which had nothing _at all_ to do with why Steve sighed and said, “Within a limit.”

“Great!” the doorkeeper grinned toothily, and put one hand on his hip, making a fist – a very beefy fist. “You can settle up his debt from _last_ time, then – isn’t that right?”

Behind them, a foot scuffed. Steve marked the location – and the location of another, far quieter; that enforcer hadn’t been intending to be heard.

“How much?” asked Steve.

The doorkeeper named a price that made Steve’s eyes widen. But, still, for a pair of swords...

With a sigh, Steve surrendered up the debt, keeping one eye on Stark as he did so – who looked partly amused, partly surprised, and ever-so-slightly gratified. This would be worth it, if he could get the man to view him favourably. Anyway, it wasn’t more than he’d been planning to spend for Stark’s services in the first place.

“Great!” said Stark brightly, when the doorkeeper had satisfied himself that the contents were actual gold. “Now let us inside to spend the rest!”

 

 

 

“Come on, just one drink, samurai-kun!” Stark leered at him; he already smelled of drink. “Loosen up for once! Or deal in a hand, if you dare...”

“You’re already gambling my money,” Steve protested, but that was an idea – if he could _win_ a commission from Stark... he already knew the man had terrible luck, after all.

 

 

 

By the time night had fallen, Steve was down to his last few brass coins. The pile in front of Stark was almost offensively massive. Several of the other gamblers in the house looked pretty offended, too. Steve stared at his hand in desperation, and took another drink from his cup of sake. After enough of it, it didn’t even burn so much anymore.

“Don’t feel so bad,” Stark said, reaching over to pat him. He was drunk enough that it became a sort of pawing motion. “We’ll do dice next.”

 

 

 

Apparently Stark’s legendarily lousy luck only applied to dice.

Unfortunately, Steve’s turned out to be pretty bad, too, and he was out of money.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the dripping sound that woke Steve up. _Plink. Plink. Plink._ Water against metal. Steve cracked open one eye, regretted it, cracked open the other – regretting it even more – and sat up, switching to general regret for this moment and all the ones that had led to them.

Trying to abate his headache, he took a careful breath in through his nose and then immediately regretted that, too. He was in a cattle barn, sprawled across a small-ish stack of hay at the back. The barn was currently empty of its usual occupants; outside, rain sheeted down, but it was daylight. Steve squinted, looking for the source of that awful _plink_ -ing, which made his head feel like someone was stabbing a knife into his right eye. It was a bucket placed underneath a leak in the roof.

To his left, there was a snore that ended in a snort, and Steve looked down to see Stark re-arranging himself on his own bit of hay, evidently without waking up. Steve left him to it, and staggered to his feet instead, then out into the rain.

Foolish, to simply stand there getting wet, but the raindrops against his forehead were ice-cold and a blessing from Heaven. Steve stood without thought of time, until the soaking started to restore some of his sense to him, and then he ducked back under the grass-woven eaves and scrubbed his face with his hands, feeling like an idiot. An idiot with an aching head and roiling gut.

He had new scabs forming over his right knuckles. He remembered earning those – vaguely. And the bruise which was making his left cheek ache. Damn Stark... Steve couldn’t remember the end of the fight. Had they been run off? Where was Daisy?

Steve shot a glare back into the darkness of the barn’s interior, and then trooped back out into the rain in search of answers.

Answers lay about fifty yards away: Fujikawa-sama’s gambling-house, inn, and onsen. Yesterday, it had seemed respectable enough; today, Steve didn’t care if he stank of cow and was dripping on the floor. A flash of memory came back to him from last night: an open door and two women waiting, lanterns raised.

_“You idiot. Sleep in the barn, for all I care.”_

_“Ru-chan, don’t... I’m sorry.”_ Stark, a pathetic, drunken huddle. Had it already been raining by then?

_“Oh... you idiot, you can’t keep doing this...”_

Steve stalked inside. It was early enough in the morning that the house was nearly empty; the interior smelled of food more than smoke and drink. One of the house servers hurried over to him – “Ah, Rogers-san, please, Hime-sama left instructions...”

“Where’s my horse?”

“Stabled with the other guests’. But, ah, surely you will wish to make use of the baths before going back into the rain...”

He’d had enough of Fujikawa-sama’s hospitality. Steve reached for his purse – and felt it fold in his hand, pathetically empty. He reached for the second one that he carried inside his shirt, safer against thieves – but that one was gone as well. His face reddened. “I can’t pay. Where’s the horse stable?”

The server looked distressed. “Please, sir, there is no charge. Hime-sama wishes to speak with you herself; it would be my great honour to assist you in preparing for – ”

“Assist me by showing me where my horse is,” snapped Steve. The server bowed, deeply, and Steve reddened again, this time from shame. “And... then I’ll go bathe, and meet with Fujikawa-sama. But I need to take care of my horse first.”

The server bowed again, and led the way out, first grabbing an umbrella for the door. Which he put over Steve’s head – useless, since Steve was already soaked, and he wished the man would hold it over his own head instead, but he couldn’t shame him by asking. Useless, and it made him feel useless. His head ached.

Daisy, recently groomed and clearly well-cared for, greeting him with a contented wuffle. The saddlebags had been carefully hung on the side of her stall. He scratched her ears, apologized for the lack of sugar, and rested his forehead against her neck. “Sorry, girl.”

He’d left her tied to a post outside of a gambling house yesterday, and gone and gotten too drunk before he’d even thought of stabling her. He should have thought of her first.

After thoroughly grooming her again himself, until the ache in his head and the guilt in his heart began to subside, Steve let the server lead him once more to the onsen. He scrubbed down in silence, this time, moving as quickly as possible: a long soak would help his various aches and pains – the bruise on his cheek wasn’t the only hurt he’d picked up last night – but he didn’t want to keep Fujikawa-sama waiting. He rinsed the last of the soap away and discarded his towel, stepping out and down toward the pool. A man’s voice drifted through the steam – he didn’t have the place to himself, this time.

Then, a higher voice – _too_ high. A slight breeze wafted away an obscuring patch of steam, and Steve sat down faster than he ever had in his life. The other occupants of the pool were none-other than Stark and Fujikawa-sama – thankfully, both submerged up to their necks, but _this was the men’s side_.

“Rogers-san!” said Fujikawa-sama. She smiled, broadly, almost showing teeth.

“I – ah – Fujikawa-sama, I didn’t realize – ”

It was her bath-house, but _what had he walked in on?_ Steve halfway stood, realized his error, and sank back down again. The combination of the heat of the baths and his own embarrassment left him light-headed.

“So polite,” drawled Stark. “You weren’t this polite last night...”

He leered, and in the steamy confines of the onsen it seemed less like a tease and more like a _promise_. Steve tipped to one side, and flailed out blindly with a hand before he caught the rock wall of the bath. A breath of steam washed between them, not enough to conceal, simply to _tantalize –_

“ – when you punched that man in the face for trying to take your swords as payment,” Stark finished smugly, after a beat. The steam cleared, showing him also flushed, eyes glittering.

Fujikawa-sama looked – amused. “I’m sure he was just as honourable, Tony. Now. He paid your debts _and_ he brought you back here last night – you owe it to him to hear him out.”

“Already did,” said Stark, his expression turning sour.

“Hah! Stop being a baby and hear him fairly.”

“He wants me to make him a pair of swords,” said Stark, sounding disgusted.

The return to seriousness was helping reduce the flaming embarrassment on Steve’s cheeks, at least – although Fujikawa-sama’s proximity was helping _not at all_ , and Stark’s was little better except that he was at least on the right side of the bath. Technically.

Steve was beginning to wish for a private bath. Although maybe he’d walked right into this in more than the literal sense – he’d been the one to first try bath-time diplomacy, yesterday. He fumbled for words. “When I asked at your estate, your people said you’d been gone a year. But you’ve still the muscles of a smith.”

“Oh, so you _were_ looking.”

“I have eyes,” Steve said, and rolled them, not to demonstrate his point. Fujikawa-sama looked delighted by this. “You still smith. Why do you refuse to work for _me_ , then? Was it because I swore to Maria-sama – do you have some quarrel with her? Tell me, and if it’s fair I’ll argue your case to her to gain restitution.”

Stark snorted, and sank down in the water, so low that when he spoke it came out partly as bubbles. “Maria. Osborn. Two sides of the same coin – both are willing to kill in pursuit of their goals. You’re blind if you don’t see that.”

Steve grimaced, controlling the snarl that tried to wind its way up his throat; Maria-sama was _nothing_ like Osborn-sama. “That’s not a fair claim, Stark.”

“Then you’re blind,” said Stark – and, yes, maybe he was: he could not read the emotion that crowded out fury in Stark’s gaze.  There were too many layers to it; too many complexities wrapped in self-hatred. “You’re asking me to create you a weapon, so that you can go forward and create _other_ weapons – found your school, teach your students to kill.”

“To _defend_ – ”

“No! To kill. Because that is what it comes down to, Rogers the Brawler – the will to cut. I’ve heard your tales; you fight barehanded against sword-bearing enemies, and leave them groaning behind with broken bones – but alive, on the battlefield. _That_ does not work with a sword. When you use a sword, you must think always of cutting the enemy. _You_ think of attacking, of wounding – perhaps of killing, but you do not think of _cutting_. And if you do not think of cutting the enemy, then you _will not cut them_.

“And you lack the will to cut. So. You think of searching out a sword-sage, who shall give you a sword that can _cut_ – so that you can teach others to cut the enemy. A sword that brings death; a sword that hungers for it. And when you are old – will you pass on your sword to your favoured student, to the least-competent, to the one who needs it as you need it? Of course you will. And in that, the power will be yours. A teacher has a lifetime to shape their student, but a smith has only a minute to hawk his wares – so the choice will be yours. Your student will go out, and they will cut whoever they choose, they will bring _death –_ ”

Sometime, in the last minute, Stark had moved closer in the water. Steve could now see where his breath wafted steam away, towards Steve. His breath came heavy, and his expression was condemning.

“But it will not be _your_ will to cut, or your student’s. It will be the smith’s. A bloodthirsty weapon, given blindly to another to do harm with as they will. I will not make you a sword, _samurai-san_. I will defy Heaven before I _ever_ _make another damned sword again_.”

Stark stood, heedless of his nudity in the presence of the opposite sex, and strode from the pool. The water slowed him, prevented him from moving too quickly; Fujikawa-sama reached up for his hand, but he did not clasp hers in return, and she allowed him to slip away. Steve only moved to the side, so that Stark would not have to pick a way around him.

He watched Stark go, vanishing into the steam. The scars that covered his chest did not reach his back. From behind, Stark’s body was that of a smith, not a scarred warrior – prisoner? – as his scars hinted.

“Hmm,” said Fujikawa-sama, managing to invest enough gravitas into it to create a low hum across the water. _Hmmm._

“Oh,” said Steve, after a while. He still couldn’t bring himself to look directly at Fujikawa-sama, but the shame currently reddening his face was all for his own arrogance. So it was not an issue that Stark had with him, per se, or with Maria-sama. Or... not entirely with him.

_You lack the will to cut._

How could Stark see that so clearly? When he had hunted bandits, he’d done so with a heavy heart – for he knew that he was bringing them back for execution. Before every battle he’d won for Maria-sama, he’d had to remind himself of the villagers they were protecting, so that he would not turn aside from the soldiers before him – and then, still, he hated putting them down. He’d never been one to shy from a physical fight, but putting someone on the ground was different than putting someone _in_ the ground.

Was that killing instinct truly what made a swordsman great? Erskine-sensei had been the best man that Steve had ever met. When he killed bandits, it was as cleanly as he could, as swiftly as he could.

But he’d been cut down himself, in battle.

“That’s more than I’ve gotten out of him in a year,” said Fujikawa-sama. “I think I like you, samurai-san!”

Her lilting voice made the words seem even more teasing than must have been intended. Steve flushed again, this time all for her. “Fujikawa-sama – ”

“No. Call me Rumiko.”

“Rumiko-sama – ”

“Good enough. Steve-san, what the hell did you ask him, _exactly_?”

He found himself explaining for a second time the whole story of it: everything he’d told Stark in the onsen yesterday, and his earlier request, and more besides until Rumiko-sama flapped a hand at him impatiently. “Yes, alright. Well, I’m not a samurai, and I’ve never had much use for honour in the way that my brothers and fathers would put it. I’ll maintain my own honour as I please, thank you – and I’ve done it well enough, to have earned as much as I have: I left my family when I was a girl, and now I have this town in my pocket, and prosperous for it. So you should listen to me when I tell you that Tony’s right. You want to cheat, by seeking such swords.”

“I – you’re right,” said Steve. “And he’s right. But I don’t know what else to do, if I’m not to let Erskine’s teachings die with me.”

“Men and their honour,” sighed Rumiko. 

“I would have enough honour never to allow one of Stark-san’s swords to fall into unworthy hands,” said Steve. “I’d swear not to pass them on, if that would convince him.”

“I don’t think it would,” said Rumiko, looking thoughtful. “This is _his_ honour to maintain; and there’s no honour in simply passing the responsibility on to another. I owe you, Steve-san, for bringing some light to the situation – I’ll provide you some in return.

“Tony and I were engaged. We were in love.” She said it so bluntly that it was all the more shocking that she was here, now, naked in a bath with a different man. Steve felt acutely ashamed to be that man. “There was – I don’t know. It was a long courtship, and it gave us each too much time to see the problems with the other, but it was working out. But then problems started happening in his lands, and Tony started getting weird instead of fixing them. Paranoid. He began drinking _all_ the time, more than was fun. When my family insisted the engagement be nullified, I agreed, and eventually got engaged again. Only then it turned out that backstabbing git Tiberius had been sabotaging Tony and had convinced my family to break my engagement to Tony – not for _me_ , but for spite.” She tossed her head. “Well, I wasn’t about to be married off to a rat, so I left, and I’ve done pretty well since. But Tony... hasn’t. Tiberius was his friend. I thought he’d just taken the betrayal too hard.”

“Betrayal can break a man,” said Steve, thinking. _Committing_ betrayal ended in death, the only option left. But if Tony had been the one betrayed... sometimes, still, that left a stain of self-doubt upon a person’s mind. Perhaps he’d in turn betrayed his people by abandoning them – although the man he’d left behind, Jarvis-sama, seemed to have the Thirty-Ninth Domain well-managed. Tony had made no sign of penance for dishonour, simply... slipped into genuinely dishonourable acts. 

“Tony was always too serious, before – always so _involved_ , he wouldn’t take time to relax, he always liked to micromanage. I mean, he’s a domain-lord and yet he became a master swordsmith – personally crafted the weapons for his own guard. He didn’t tell me what he’d found out about Tiberius until nearly the last minute. Maybe he kept something else back, too. Because I thought he wasn’t working because he was _drinking_ , and as far as I know, Ty never killed anyone.”

Steve frowned. Something about that didn’t sit right either. “The scars on his chest...”

“No. Those are older.” Rumiko’s expression grew darker.

“Menboku…”

“ _Years_ older. But I guess there could be something there, too. I don’t know the details, but I do know it was why he resigned his commission as imperial swordsmith and went back to his own lands. And it must have been why Fury-sama let him, because _everyone_ knows Tony’s work is the best. Ask him once more, and ask him for the full of it, Steve-san. I still like Tony. I wish I could still allow him into my gambling houses and taverns.”

“I will,” said Steve, with a shallow bow, as much as the water would allow. “Thank you, Rumiko-sama.”

But he wondered if he would mean it. Stark’s words still resonated with him. _You lack the will to cut._ A sword was a tool for killing; it was intended to kill. But a sword that itself possessed a thirst for death – that had an intent for such separate to the honour and code of its wielder – surely that weapon could only be called evil.

For Stark’s sake, however, he would ask at least for an explanation.

Or he would after he got out of the bath. His circumstances were abruptly recalled to him as Rumiko leaned back on her stone bench, looking at him with lazy, expectant eyes.

“I,” said Steve. “Um.” 

“Oh, you are precious,” said Rumiko, and smiled. She draped one long, elegant hand across her eyes – and then cracked her fingers apart, to peer from between them. Whatever she saw on Steve’s face sent her into paroxysms of laughter, until she had to turn her head away, and Steve took advantage of the opportunity to flee.

Stark was long gone from the changing rooms, allowing Steve to dry himself and dress in silence, alone with his thoughts. Before he spoke to Stark, he needed to sort out his own thoughts. He would ask one of Rumiko’s servers to direct him to a local shrine, or perhaps he could simply rent a room where he could meditate in peace. He could not expect to assist Stark while his own soul was yet divided between his once-dream and its death.

 

 

 

 

Leaving the bathhouse didn’t give Tony many options for places to go – unless he wanted to leave town entirely. Ru had banned him from every gambling-house and bar that she owned, and all the restaurants, too – hell, half the time she banned him from the inns, which was fair enough because half the time he didn’t have any money. Sure, it was easy enough to rake it in at cards, but that attracted its own share of problems; he didn’t need to cheat, or even pay much attention, to win at cards, but nobody liked a winner. Dice were easier, more satisfying, even when he lost. Maybe especially when he lost.

Tony growled at the thought, earning himself careful amount of non-attention from the server standing at the door to the changing room, keeping watch. When Ru had invited him for this morning bath, he’d thought she just wanted to talk, and was delighting in being as un-decorous as possible. He hadn’t realized she was _setting him up_. And there was that samurai, again, with all his goddamn determination... and a surprising amount of naiveté, for a man who’d fought in a war. But it fit with the stories of him. A soldier who truly wanted to protect, to _teach_ rather than killing... Tony had seen such before, but they were rare.

And thinking about this made the old scars on his chest hurt. He finished dressing quickly, ignoring the way cloth caught on damp skin, and left the bathhouse behind. Ru hadn’t banned him from _all_ of her properties – just the ones where he might fuck up. Although – as he entered the smithy, the lone apprentice present (and where was her master?) visibly inspected him over her bucket of half-filed nails, no doubt looking for signs of inebriation.

Tony might have bristled, once, but – like every other damned thing in his life – he couldn’t say he hadn’t had it coming.

“Stark-sama,” the apprentice said, standing so that she could bow properly.

Tony waved her off. He wished he could just order her _out_ , but – “What needs doing?”

She gave him the list. Horseshoes, nails – everyone always needed more nails – and a few fiddlier things; nothing of any interest. None of it was ever of any interest. Everything he used to do, everything that used to come spilling out of his head –

– like blood, spilling across the floor, and it was his hand holding the blade –

– Tony checked the bellows, reaching for gloves and apron. His hands itched for the work, even if he couldn’t keep anything in his head straight anymore. He didn’t care if it was nails or plowshares.

It was winding on towards evening by the time that he heard hooves outside – the sound of men and horses, _many_ horses. The apprentice had vanished to deliver the nails that she’d dutifully worked at all afternoon. Tony set the next scythe-blade to heat in the forge, and picked up the one that was now ready for repairing. He wasn’t the master, here, and he recognized the sounds of soldiers. Let ‘em wait for the real deal to return.

“Smith!” cried a voice from outside. “Smith! Your services are required.”

Rude. Tony ignored it, eyed the blade, and struck with measured strength. Better.

More conversation outside, and then the door cracked open on that side. “We’ve a horse that threw a shoe,” said the earlier speaker, in-between the fall of the hammer.

“Busy,” Tony grunted, and flipped over the blade.

“You are ordered to come at the will of Doom-sama. You will not defy him!”

Tony paused. He set the blade back in the forge – and, then, turned to look properly. The man in the doorway – in the _shop_ , now, and with two others crowding in behind him – was young. More to the point, he didn’t have a bucket on his head.

“You’re not Victor,” Tony said flatly, wincing almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Young, Latverian, righteous expressions – those shifted to rage in no time flat as they heard the lack of honourific, and then they were lunging forward. Tony bolted for the back exit, tripped over a bucket of unfinished nails, and went sprawling into the mud outside.

Hands grabbed him, hauling him up. Tony broke the first hold, got elbowed in the gut, and doubled over, giving up. For all of Doom’s eccentricity, Tony had never been able to fault the way he treated his _own_ people – he was a genius on the battlefield, and he made sure that his troops were trained to exaction. Doom’s soldiers dragged him back through the smithy – knocking things over in the process, that was nice – and into the front yard, throwing him down. At least this time Tony managed to get a hand out to break his fall, so he didn’t wind up breaking his nose on the flagstone.

“What is this that you bring before _Doom-sama?_ ”

 _That_ , Tony thought, looking up and setting back into seiza, was Doom, lord of the Five Hundred and First domain. Probably. Deep baritone voice, made hollow by the fact that it came from behind a metal helmet with only slits for eyes and mouth; tall, weighty presence, garbed in full armour and a green cloak – and mask itself, full of snarling, exaggerated features in the traditional style. The only other samurai who wore such a thingthese days were the ones portrayed in kabuki theatres. Doom _should_ have been eminently recognizable... except that he had the odd habit of occasionally sending a trusted guard to act as himself, complete with the assumption of honourifics and even clothing: a peculiar practice made all the more-so considering how otherwise honour-obsessed Doom could be. It wasn’t cowardice: Doom had won too many duels for anyone to accuse him of that.

The depth of his voice probably meant that this really was really him. Few men could match that. And the only reason Tony could think of for him to be here was if he was travelling between the Imperial Court and his own domain; Ru’s town was located in the Third Domain, which belonged to Jan, and Jan wasn’t an ally of Doom, or much fond of him. Even Doom wouldn’t send a double to deal with Fury. 

In any case, it was safer to assume that this was Victor. Doom’s lackeys _could_ be dangerous... Doom himself _always_ was.

One of the peons piped up. “This is the smith, Doom-sama! He has a foul mouth.”

“Fools,” growled Doom. “Do you not know whom you lay hands upon?” He tossed the reins of his horse to another of his followers, approaching with steps that clinked against the stone – Doom always had liked his ridiculous metal boots. “Stark...- _san._ Doom-sama is aware that you have given up smithcraft.”

Tony eyed him. “Well, I don’t know. If you’re in the market for a plowshare, or nails, Vic, I can fix you up. But no military horses.”

For a man whose ‘face’ was a permanent scowl, Doom certainly managed to pack a sneer. “ _You_ dare call Doom-sama so familiarly? Pah! A wretch who lowers himself to the mud like a commoner, and fills his hands with dull work. Pathetic.”

“Honest work, at least,” said Tony. “Constructive.”

Doom’s breath rattled behind his mask. “Is that what you call it, Stark _-san_? You have fallen far. _Look_ at you. You’ve abandoned your lands and your liegemen, turned to idle work that fills your time and _wastes_ the talents you were given. You were once _worthy_ of Doom-sama’s respect upon the field of battle, but now you are a coward who runs from his duties, traitor to your oaths. You wear the trappings of honour, and you have _none_.”

One more person disappointed in him. Tony had thought he’d grown inured to it, after so long. But Doom had never looked askance at him for taking to smithcraft in the first place; he’d always valued honourable work, demanding the best from his own people according to their ability. That he was so offended now... hurt, dully, in a way that Tony hadn’t anticipated. He stared down at the flagstones.

The flash of steel made Tony look up again, and dull hurt crystallized – Doom had drawn his katana, advancing forward. Tony ducked, grabbing for his belt knife – a tiny hope, but it was his own work; if he could block the blade would hold even against Doom’s steel – but his reflexes were dull, slow, and as the blade came down his thoughts were exactly as they’d been that other time, _damn it, I’m not ready_ –

The blade _whooshed_ by his head and he fell over backwards, nearly failing to catch himself in his own surprise at still breathing. Doom held the katana low at his side. For a moment Tony couldn’t figure out what had happened – a swordsman as good as Doom wouldn’t have _missed_ – and then the light touch of a breeze clued him in: the weight of his hair, tied up, was missing. Tony blinked – and, there, it was lying upon the ground. Doom had shorn away his warrior’s topknot, his last tie to nobility since he’d given his seal to Jarvis and left.

“This is your station now,” said Doom.

Tony stared at the knot of hair. His head felt curiously light – shouldn’t his heart as well? Tony had _given it up_. The honour that Doom claimed was a lie, founded upon the type of psychopathy that Doom himself so excelled at: slaughter of innocents, by the sword or by politics. Tony had given it up, had thrown it away. The top-knot had merely been the last affection.

It should not have mattered, losing that last thing, and yet it felt like Doom had cut out his heart and cast it into the dirt instead. The last vestiges of his belief in honour... were as nothing.

“You should have committed seppuku,” said Doom, raising his katana again. “Doom-sama shall be merciful, and grant you death before you further dishonour your name.” The blade flashed down.

And a second time, miraculously, did not connect. A clay-brown object – a plate? – flew out of nowhere; Doom’s katana flashed up, and there was a high _cling_ as his blade intercepted the missile and cut it into two pieces. Tony scrambled backward, his eyes falling against his will again to the shorn top-knot, and then he forced them up to look around for his saviour.

Doom’s soldiers had all drawn their swords as well, facing the intruder – but Rogers did not look impressed or even dismayed. He barely raised one eyebrow. “You’re neither the Emperor nor lord of this domain, Doom-sama,” he called, drawing his own swords. Doom’s soldiers closed ranks – two rows of them between Rogers and where Tony sprawled. “You’ve no right to pass judgement upon that man.”

“Rogers the Brawler,” said Doom – of _course_ he recognized Rogers on sight; Doom was the sort who would. “A man known for his own honour, if of a soft disposition. Do you dare _challenge_ Doom-sama?”

The soldiers were tense. _Tony_ found himself tensing, too, distracted from the ache beneath his sternum – Rogers was a bit of an idiot, but a good man. Doom was a good _swords_ man, a brilliant one –

“I do,” said Rogers, and he shoved his past through Doom’s soldiers as though it was unthinkable that they might stop him, stepping past Tony and the fallen knot of hair.

“Rogers, you don’t want to do this,” said Tony, quietly.

“I really do.”

“I won’t go back to making swords – ”

“I don’t care,” said Rogers. He wasn’t looking at Tony. All of his attention was on Doom, as the latter drew his wakizashi and made his salute with exquisite formality. Rogers returned the salute with his own. The only thing Tony could do was get out of the way – he stumbled to his feet and to the side, trying to think. Doom’s soldiers surrounded them, hands on weapon hilts, their horses well out of the way.

“Die well, Rogers-san,” said Doom, and lunged forward into a classic attack from _Niten Ichi_ style. Rogers blocked with cat-like grace, parried the follow-up and the next blow as well – Doom wasn’t wasting time testing his defences; he already had Rogers judged to a T. Swords rang out, and Tony cursed under his breath as Rogers was beaten back, constantly on the defensive, and his offensive was too damn _weak_ – he had the technical skill, the grace, but it was lacking nonetheless. Doom’s blades were a whirlwind of _intent_ , flickering out, and Steve gained a cut on his cheek – a blossom of red upon his shirt-sleeve –

Steve dropped his swords, eeled out of the way of a strike that should have slashed his gut open, and snaked right up into Doom’s space, slamming the heel of his hand into Doom’s face hard enough that the helmet probably broke his nose. Doom fell back, staggering, and Steve pressed his advantage, managing to kick in the side of his right knee. But although Doom stumbled, he was made of sterner stuff; he restored his guard with a series of defensive strikes that nearly cost Steve a hand, and they both disengaged to a wary distance.

“You have true skill, though in a low-born style,” said Doom. He was stepping very carefully, Tony noted. If Steve could strike that weak point again, he would have the fight – but Steve was injured, too; blood ran freely down his hand from the wound at his wrist. He would have to strike again quickly, and this time without the advantage of surprise.

“DOOM-DONO!”

Both combatants paused.

“You – _out_ of my way, move!” came the clear, sweet sound of Rumiko’s voice, and then she was shoving her own way through Doom’s soldiers. “Doom-dono. Rogers-san. Dueling is forbidden here. Surely you would not abuse my hospitality by breaking this law.”

Doom’s mask turned toward her. “Rogers-san issued the challenge.”

“It is _null_ in my demesne.”

“Your _demesne_ , Fujikawa-san?”

“Ru-chan, don’t – ” 

“Shut up, Tony. And Doom-dono, that is Fujikawa- _dono_ , at the least.”

Doom looked down at her coldly, and Tony’s breath caught in his throat. Rumiko was no gentle flower, carefully bending events to her will through demure scheming. She seized what she wanted by the throat. But she was also _not_ any kind of warrior, not on the physical plane.

The blade of Doom’s katana flicked up and in her direction; Steve immediately stepped between them, but Doom spoke as if he wasn’t there. “You _dare_ to claim equal status to Doom-sama? You are but heir to your father’s house, not a domain-lord in your own right, and you are not lord _here._ You’ve no right to shelter an oath-breaker such as Stark.”

“Neither is this your domain, Doom-dono; you have no right to his death. Outside of here your lands may be greater than mine, but this town is _mine_ , and I will defend all who enter.” Rumiko raised her hand, pointing to the rooftops – and there, perched on top of the smithy, were a trio of townsfolk, each armed with a bow. Atop the storage shed to the side was another group, and across the buildings the other way, it was the same.  At the edge of the crowd, past the circle of soldiers, was forming a _much_ larger circle of peasants: armed with staves and sais, all of them unarmoured... but ready and determined. They had some training, then.

Doom’s soldiers snapped to attention as though a whip had been cracked over their heads, whirling to place themselves facing outward instead of inward. Tony gauged the odds. Rumiko had the far superior position, with one big flaw: she herself was surrounded. And Steve was getting paler by the minute, although at least he’d taken advantage of the pause to clamp his other hand around his bloody wrist.

Rumiko gave no sign that she noticed this, instead standing tall, her face raised. “If you fight here, Doom-dono, you will not prevail even if you win. You will have made war upon a holding of this domain, and Jan-dono _would_ pursue vengeance for my death. Fury-sama favours my family and would permit it.”

She stood there like she didn’t care that she was balancing her own life, too, unafraid of all the weapons that surrounded her. He’d had nightmares like this – nightmares, and worse than nightmares, where everything he’d tried led to blood running across the earth, and in the end he’d run away and hid in a bottle – Doom was right. He was a coward. Tony had never pretended otherwise.

Doom had condemned him too for wasting his abilities, though, and for something to be wasted it must be present in the first place. Steve and Rumiko had stepped in to save him, just like Yinsen had stepped in to save him, and just like Yinsen they were going to die. But just like Yinsen, he couldn’t not _try_ to save them in return.

_I have to try something._

He was certainly not going to be able to defeat Doom himself. He hadn’t touched a sword in a year, and just the thought made his stomach flip over. But of the many times Yinsen had stepped in to save him, only at the last had he ever raised a weapon. Doom surely hadn’t come here looking to make war; Tony just needed to give him an excuse not to, so that his honour would not be blackened by backing down before Ru’s threat.

“Doom-sama!” said Tony, and he stepped forward and knelt in full obeisance, nose to stone. Words poured out. “Sensei-sama. You are right. I have erred, and I see that now. And I will _fix_ my behaviour. I should have committed seppuku before sinking to such dishonour, you are _right_ – but now that I have seen this error, I will correct it, and make no further waste of myself. To fight here and now would be a waste of life. I will shoe your horse in gratitude, Doom-sama, and then I shall begin my repentance.”

The tableau froze yet again in surprise. Tony forced himself to breathe. If Doom decided to strike him down now, perhaps he would at least spare Steve and Rumiko. Rumiko would not call her villagers into battle for a dead man, for nothing.

“...surprising,” said Doom, and Tony nearly choked. “You were ever a quick study, Stark-san. Very well. Doom-sama shall permit this... and will not violate your hospitality further, Fujikawa…- _dono._ ”

Tony peeked up from where he knelt. Around them, Doom’s soldiers were sheathing their own weapons once more. Rumiko had moved forward and was hurriedly wrapping a strip of cloth around Steve’s wrist to better control the bleeding; Steve looked surprised, and drained pale.

And Doom was glaring down at him like a malevolent idol. But, faced with a superiorly positioned force, and a sop to his honour enough to let him back down, he was... actually backing down. Tony took a quick breath, enough to breathe through the shock.

Then he scrambled to his feet, and went to get the tools to shoe a horse.

 

 

 

Rumiko, with the cunning and flair that had made her so-loved by her townsfolk in the first place, threw her people a feast of celebration and thanks that night, opening her larders and breaking out the best of her liquors. Steve, however, declined the offer to join the festivities; he still felt pale and light-headed. He’d half-collapsed from blood-loss, earlier, only barely managing to escape Doom’s sight first. Rumiko had called a doctor to stitch up his wrist and check that no tendons had been severed – which, thank Heaven, there were none. The doctor had also smeared on some sort of ointment that had made the whole thing pleasantly, tinglingly numb. Perhaps he could have joined the festivities after all... but he had wanted the time to think.

Using a staff instead of a sword during war was one thing; dropping his swords in a duel was another. But it had _worked_ – sort of. Doom was by far the better swordsman, though. If he’d kept trying to fight Doom on those grounds, he’d have lost more than blood.

The door slid open, and Steve looked up from the remains of his decimated meal to see Rumiko in the doorway, Stark a pace behind her. “You’re looking better, Steve-san. Less about to heroically faint.”

Steve had been half-reclining; he sat up hastily, checking that his clothes were acceptable. Rumiko’s beauty was all the more breathtaking since her display of bravery, and she was dressed in a gorgeous kimono for the feast. She seemed to pay it no mind, padding into the room and tugging Stark in behind her – it was Stark who shut the door. Not exactly decorous, but then again, they had all _bathed_ together earlier. Stark, himself, looked at once both more appealing and more remote; he had shaved his head entirely at some point since the fracas, but while it gave him something of an air of gravitas he would never be mistaken for a monk. The beard helped quite a bit in that regard.

“Rumiko-sama,” Steve said, offering a kneeling bow. “Stark-san. Thank you, Rumiko-sama, for the room, and the meal, and... everything.”

They settled in easily, kneeling across from him; a moment later, a storm of servants descended, swapping out the remains of Steve’s meal with a tray of deserts so elegant that Steve thought it would be a shame to eat them. Rather than sake or wine, there was a white tea, poured into steaming cups. Steve wondered if that was Rumiko’s influence, restraining Stark from excess – but when he looked closer at Stark, he was surprised to find the man was entirely clear-eyed.

He didn’t know how to bring it up. Or even that he _wanted_ to bring it up. Rumiko-sama had asked him to do so, however, and he owed it to her. Perhaps he owed it to Stark as well. So, after the servers had again retreated, and Rumiko had poured the tea, Steve said, “I’d have thought... you’d prefer to enjoy the feast, Stark-sama.”

Stark raised an eyebrow at him, looking amused. _I see right through you_. “You start adding honourifics _now_? You saved my life; I think you can call me Tony.”

“Tony-san,” Steve conceded.

“Heh. You’re – I don’t know.” Stark sipped at his tea and made a face; his manners, at least, weren’t improved with sobriety. “You know, I was just throwing out words at Doom, I had to say _something_ – ”

“I had him surrounded!” said Rumiko, mock-indignantly.

“Yeah, and I’m honoured that you were willing to die for me, but I don’t want you to,” said Stark. He set down his teacup and laid his hands on his knees, bowing his head. “I’ve had people die for me before. I didn’t – I couldn’t save them. I’m... astonished Doom backed off, actually.” He was staring at the tea like it might hold answers to the universe. “If I got drunk now, I couldn’t be certain he did.”

“Drinking... does that,” said Steve dryly, recalling the previous night – what little he could remember. He’d never been quite _that_ drunk before; Stark – Tony – had taken it to extreme.

“It’s been a while since I wanted to be clear about anything,” said Tony, very quietly. “I – uh. I might’ve been – I’ve been... drinking, too much. Running away. Doom _was_ right.”

“Not about his right to kill you,” said Rumiko. She reached over and picked up one of Tony’s hands, clasping it between her own. Tony was still staring at the tea; he didn’t see the pointed look that she directed at Steve.

“Tony-san... Um.” Steve paused, his thoughts too scattered. “I don’t actually want you to make me swords anymore.”

That got Tony to look up, with a half-hearted smile. “Stopped lying to yourself too, huh?”

Steve made a face. “Yes. But... why did you stop making them?”

“...I looked at them and all I could see was the blood on them.”

“Weapons can be used to defend, or to protect.”

“Swords are different. _My_ swords were different.” It was Tony’s turn to hesitate; this time, he looked at Rumiko, although when he spoke it was to Steve. “I – there was a man, another lord, named Tiberius. Or, no, it was before then. A long time ago, I was... ambushed, captured by enemies. Their leader had one of my swords. They wanted more.” Apparently unconsciously, Tony raised his free hand to cover his chest – right overtop where the word _honour_ had been branded into him. “There was another captive – not one of my people, not sworn to me, a _good_ man – better than I. But he gave up his life for me.”

Good men too often died in such a fashion, Steve noted. With any luck, he’d be one such – at a very ripe old age.

“I swore, after that, that I’d be more careful with where my weapons ended up. I can forge things into blades that... most others can’t. I swore I’d be more responsible. But I couldn’t always... there were things that happened – at the White Palace. You spoke of it like it was some grand victory, Steve-san. It wasn’t. It was elite soldiers facing down a mob of stupid, rebellious kids, and maybe if I’d given the Guard blunted blades and bombs filled with sleeping gas, they wouldn’t have taken such a tithe of blood. It was a slaughter. Even Fury was appalled. And those were swords given to a cause I’d thought honourable... I swore, again, I’d be better, more careful – but then, Ty...”

“Tiberius was a nutcase,” Rumiko said bluntly. “He didn’t need your weapons to kill people. He killed his own parents when he was a _child_ – he was _evil_.”

“Maybe,” said Tony, sounding a good deal less convinced than Steve was after hearing _that_ detail. “He was – okay, yes, he was evil. But you remember that drug he had?”

“He was trying to build up a merchant empire with it. Seemed too risky.”

“It wasn’t like opium,” Tony explained, for Steve’s benefit. “He refused to reveal his source, but it was... mystical, made mundane for the masses. If you took it with someone else, you could share a dream with them. It felt real.” He hesitated. “The last time I went to confront him – he had it burning. He knocked it over and I inhaled some, but it was a different blend. It was more like a hallucination. I saw – I thought you were there, Ru-chan. Dying.” Tony’s voice had flattened out, going impersonal. “Yinsen, again. Every victim of my mistakes – they tallied up over the years, but there they were, all at once. And I realized they really were all mine.”

“So you stopped,” said Steve.

“So I stopped. But then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Getting drunk made it hazy – and then getting drunk was just easier. When it – when _I_ – made a mess of things at home, it was easier to just leave. But... if I’d been drunk today I wouldn’t have known what to say to convince Doom not to start a war. I think... I think I should stop drinking, but I’m not sure I _can_.”

“You can,” said Steve. For a moment he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say – but then Tony looked at him, and his eyes were so full of relief that Steve knew it was. “It might be hard, but you can.”

“You’ll stay here until you have,” said Rumiko decisively. “We’ve a couple former drunks in this town, I’ll draft them to tell you how they stopped. And I’ll write to Jan and let her know she has you as a guest – she’ll be relieved.”

“I’ll stay, too,” said Steve, and then, “I mean, in the town – not to take advantage of your hospitality, Rumiko-sama, I’ll find somewhere proper to live – ”

“Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud, you’ll stay here.”

Steve ignored her choice of words and forged bravely on. “But, your people... they’re good. They’ve got the beginning of discipline. I’ve thought a lot about what you said, Stark. Erskine-sensei... I know he wanted me to continue his tradition with the sword. But the most important things he wanted to teach me were about discipline, and _intent_. My style is not his, but I can continue teaching those most important things. With your permission, Rumiko-sama, I’d like to found a school here and do that.”

“And that would help if Doom ever decided to pass through again,” said Rumiko, nodding. “I like it.” She smiled – a slow, mysterious smile, one that made Steve intimately aware of his own pulse. Her posture had changed, becoming at once both predatory and inviting; she reached up and pulled away the ornament in her hair, and it tumbled down loose, across her shoulders and chest, luxuriously, silky smooth. “I would like it... if you both stayed, tonight.”

Steve was not quite sure if it was him or Tony who squeaked. It _was_ Tony who asked, voice rough – and hearing him sound like _that_ just made Steve flush deeper – “Um. Ru – we... broke up.”

Rumiko rolled her eyes, breaking the spell of her careful positioning. “I don’t want to _marry_ you, Tony. Either of you. But you are both good men, honourable men – or striving for it – and both beautiful men, who cannot stop looking at each other in the bath...”

Steve met Tony’s eyes for one mortified second, seeing his own embarrassment mirrored there – and something more, besides: the same thing stirring in his own gut. Tony was an undeniably handsome man – one willing to lay aside his own fears and doubts and pick himself _back up_. Steve could not deny that he was just as attracted to him as he was to Rumiko. Rumiko could have been remote, a princess behind her fan; instead she was _present_ , with a fiery magnetism that drew Steve toward her like a loadstone – the same magnetism that Tony had, his dark eyes glittering now with no embarrassment at all. They were separated only by the low table.

The bed in the room Steve had been given was quite large.

“And I’m very glad we’re all alive,” said Rumiko briskly, and just as briskly leaned up to kiss Tony full on the mouth; she withdrew after a second, just as Tony seemed to be getting over his surprise at being kissed, and stood with a movement that was the furthest thing from demure in the world. She tugged Tony up behind her, keeping his hand held in her own, and led him around the table, where she offered her other hand to Steve, bidding him rise to his feet. “And we’ll be very careful of Steve’s bandages...”

“And very appreciative,” Tony murmured, dropping a kiss into Rumiko’s hair – she stood nearly a head shorter than him – and stepping forward to kiss Steve, too, full on the mouth.

Together they made their way to the low, wide bed. Rumiko and Tony half-trapped Steve between them, undressing him with exquisite care, mindful of the bandages on his wrist – so much so that Steve said, “You know, the doctor had a numbing salve. It doesn’t actually _hurt_.”

“But it’s more fun,” said Rumiko, “to be so, _so_ careful...”

Across her, Tony grinned wickedly, mischief writ all over him. He was standing on Steve’s injured side, and he slipped an arm beneath Steve’s, pressing his palm against Steve’s bare chest, easing him down to the bed, and his arm up, to rest on the pillows over his head. “She’s right, y’know. If you stayed just here, and were very good...”

His hand trailed further downward, to rest lightly on Steve’s stomach – almost tickling. Steve’s stomach muscles flexed, tensed, and Tony grinned down at him. Then he jolted, as behind him Rumiko pulled his yukata halfway down without first freeing his arms – although she’d managed to untie the belt. Tony growled and turned, capturing her mouth in a kiss again as Steve watched, breathless, but then Rumiko reached between them and did something Steve couldn’t see. It left Tony unbalanced, though, and Rumiko promptly shoved him down onto the bed, sprawling across Steve’s feet and laughing.

Her own yukata was promptly discarded, and she shook out her hair – long, silken strands falling across her shoulders and down over her small, perfect breasts. Then she climbed in between them, capturing Steve’s good hand in the process, and bringing it to her mouth – nipping lightly at his fingertips. Steve swallowed.

“Next move is yours,” she told him, and Tony made a noise of agreement.

That was fair – Steve pulled his fingers away from her, gently, and stroked them across her cheek – around the curve of her ear, trailing down her neck toward her fine, elegant collarbone, smoothing over skin lightly, so lightly. She shivered beneath his touch – and then again, when Tony, behind her, shifted himself upward and lowered his mouth to her shoulder, pressing kisses there. Steve gently tugged her lower, closer, and circled his fingers around one breast – and in the spirit of the same mischief they’d both shown, tweaked her nipple; she twitched, grinned, and reached down and tweaked him back, then splayed her hands across his chest.

“Good,” she said, half-demanding, half-laughing. “More like that.”

Steve obliged. For a while the three of them explored each other’s bodies, touching and kissing; Tony and Rumiko switched places, and then switched back again, fighting over who got to be in the middle, both of them gorgeous and demanding. Rumiko won in the end, distracting Tony when he tried to roll her over by leaning back on him and grinding her hips in a slow roll that had Tony giving a strangled groan.

“Fingers,” she commanded Steve, imperiously, and guided his hand downward, keeping her own palm pressed against the back of his hand. She was wet after all the exploration, and with her fingers guiding him he found her clit easily. “Yes – like that, no, _harder_. On that side there.” Her hips were making jittery motions as he worked, and Tony pressing further up against her, burying his face in her hair.

Steve ached to put his other hand down to rub off his own cock, standing upright and red with arousal, but some deeper level of obedience made him keep his hand above his head. It made him feel open, laid-out beneath Rumiko’s gaze. When Tony lifted his head from her shoulder, catching Steve’s eyes with his own, the sensation redoubled. Tony groaned and wrapped an arm around Rumiko’s stomach, shifting them both so that they straddled Steve’s thigh, and then he reached around and – _yes, finally_ – wrapped his other hand around Steve’s cock, jacking it in agonizingly slow motions compared to the speed that Rumiko was demanding.

Rumiko arched, shuddering, her fingers pressing up against Steve’s faster and harder; Tony’s hand across her stomach moved up to pinch her nipple hard, and she came with a groan. She shuddered for a few seconds more, working harder down onto Steve’s hand when he might have pulled away to keep from going past pleasure to the point of pain. “ _Yes_ ,” she hissed, and sounded so smugly self-satisfied that Tony cracked up laughing. Steve grinned, too, but his own breathing was laboured by arousal more than by amusement.

“Good. Yes,” said Rumiko. “Good. Give me a minute.” She leaned down, kissed Steve on the forehead, then on the mouth, and then leaned up to do the same for Tony, before rolling away to lie beside Steve, breathing hard and happily and coated in a sheen of sweat.

Tony, still chuckling, leaned down and across Steve, pressing the length of their bodies together, their cocks – Tony’s was hard, too, of course it was – trapped between their stomachs, along with Tony’s hand. Steve’s hips bucked up involuntarily when Tony’s cock slid up against his own – “Sorry!”

Tony laughed. “ _Not_ a problem.” He had both of their cocks together in his hand, and was taking it slowly, _leisurely_ – but still doing all the work. Steve looked over to Rumiko, who raised an eyebrow and him, and then looked back in time to be caught in a breathtaking kiss – harder than before, teeth and tongue with enough force to press Steve’s head down against the pillow. In retaliation Steve bucked his hips up again – this time deliberately – and reached his good hand down to cup Tony’s balls, rolling them between fingers that were still wet from Rumiko.

Rumiko caught her breath and joined in, lying on her side – stealing kisses from both of them, or trailing kisses down their necks, down Tony’s back – “Keep still,” she commanded, and crawled around to trail them up both of their thighs, outside and then inside. Tony had his knees planted on either side of Steve, now; he hitched his up and hooked his ankles beneath Steve’s legs, encouraging him to splay his legs wide as well. It was harder and harder for Steve to keep his legs still – they kept jerking without him meaning to, and then Rumiko would slap the inside of his thigh, a light, stinging not-quite-pain that made everything stand out _better_.

“Like that?” Tony asked, and when Steve nodded his head vigorously, he raked his nails – lightly, but just _enough_ – across Steve’s ribs.

“Move,” said Rumiko. “I’m in the middle, now.”

“Hey – ”

“Shush, Tony – you _want_ me in the middle,” she said, voice dipping lower, and that had Tony rolling aside obediently – and taking his hand away, making Steve groan with disappointment.

He lifted his head to get a better view of them both. “What – _oh_.” Rumiko had taken Tony’s place, straddling Steve’s thighs; Tony was kneeling behind her, in-between Steve’s splayed legs.

“Ru, if you get pregnant – ”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, jacking Steve’s cock once, then twice. Her hand was slick with spit. “I’ve got a tea – ” she broke off in a slow exhale as she lowered herself down, her eyes fluttering. Steve clenched his good hand against the sheets and forced himself not to buck his hips upward, no matter how much he wished – a resolution that became infinitely _harder_ when another hand – Tony’s – reached between his legs and began stroking his balls. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

Rumiko leaned forward, curling up against his chest, every movement causing the muscles inside her to contract and flex around his cock; Steve groaned, and forced himself again to wait. But she wasn’t moving, just – flexing. Here and there.

“Please?” Steve asked, breathlessly. “Can I – ”

“No,” Rumiko ordered. “Stay still.” She pressed open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone, then bit in lightly with her teeth and sucked – not at all lightly, sending frissons through his chest, down his arm, until she released him so that she could worry his flesh with nibbling teeth. It tickled, in-between tiny sharp pinpricks.

Steve focused on trying to control his breathing, to do as she asked, but his breath caught in his throat as Tony’s hand returned to playing with his balls, and, then, nudging up against the base of Steve’s cock – except that was too wide to be one of Tony’s fingers, the skin too smooth and soft. Tony pressed down, fingers _present_ , guiding himself to slide into Rumiko alongside Steve, and Steve couldn’t keep back the groan in his throat. Above him, Rumiko moaned as well; Steve forced his eyes open to look at her, worried, but her expression was one of both concentration and bliss. Steve let his eyes squeeze shut again and enjoy it.

“Ah,” said Tony, breathing hard himself. There was breathless laughter. “There we go. And here we go.”

“Move,” said Rumiko, at _last_. “Counter-point – slow _in_ , there – ”

Steve followed her instructions as she demanded, hanging on. At first the rhythm was awkward – and amazing even so; their two cocks pressed together, sliding against one another and against Rumiko, eliciting gasps at each motion. Then their rhythm caught, and it was _perfect_. Heat and tension pooled in Steve’s groin, in his thighs, and he gave himself over to Rumiko’s commands and the rhythm Tony set, carried it until he couldn’t anymore and his whole body shuddered, hips and thighs jerking as he orgasmed.

Rumiko and Tony didn’t stop; she was moving now, small motions that pressed against Steve’s hips, shifting his spent cock inside her – and Tony kept moving, panting, biting down on Rumiko’s shoulder and marking her in the same way she’d marked Steve. The continuing sensation was almost too much – no, it _was_ too much, but Steve didn’t want it to stop; his eyes rolled back in his head, breath rasping in his throat.

Rumiko shifted, and cried out herself, orgasming a second time, muscles contracting and rippling in a way that made Steve see stars. That set Tony off – the thrusts of his cock became erratic for the first time, in less than stellar control, and he finished off with quick, almost vicious thrusts.

Then stilled. All three of them were breathing harshly, glowing with sweat and pleasure. Steve felt his muscles unclench, the occasional shiver running through him as some small motion from the other two might press against his over-stimulated cock. Then – with a sigh, almost a regretful one – Tony pulled out, withdrew, and flopped down beside Steve, landing on his back.

Rumiko collapsed against Steve’s chest, pressing her forehead against the mark she’d made; her breath against his skin was warm, soothing. Then, gently, she pulled herself off – Steve didn’t quite manage to strangle a moan at the slide against his cock – and half fell over onto Steve’s other side.

“That was great,” said Tony blissfully. “Wonderful. You’re a champ. Both of you. Beautiful. So great.”

Rumiko laughed at him, pulled herself up, and tottered away from the bed – Steve tried propping himself up, concerned, but Tony flailed an arm around until he got it across Steve’s chest. “Stay. Unless you need – ?”

“Just cleaning up,” came Rumiko’s voice, over from one of the partitions. Her voice was slightly hoarse. Sure enough, she returned a few seconds later, standing at the foot of the bed and stretching, showing off every inch of her body – Steve smiled his appreciation, and earned a wink in return. Then she crawled back onto the bed, squirming her way in between Tony and Steve. Tony made a slightly irritated sound that turned into muffled laughter when she pinched one of his nipples, and wriggled over enough for her to lie in-between them instead of on top of them.

“Ha. Demanding. I’ll make you a wrist-guard, Steve,” said Tony, still babbling. “Or gauntlets. Maybe a shield. Something to protect your hands. I want both, next time.”

“Me, too,” said Rumiko.

“Next time,” said Steve, and he curled inward toward Rumiko, flinging his good arm around her and pulling her in so that he could reach Tony, too, and curl up with them both. Their legs all tangled. “Yes.”

He could live quite happily like this.

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, they all live happily together for about a year. Steve quickly realizes that Rumiko’s town is not actually large enough to support a martial arts school, but he sticks around while Tony makes him increasingly elaborate wrist-guards, moving towards ones he just takes off and throws, finally culminating in something round-shield-shaped. Steve takes advantage of the time to train a lot and work these odd new weapons into his fighting style, and makes Tony write letters home to Jarvis letting him know how he’s doing. 
> 
> Rumiko likes having them around, but still doesn’t plan on anything permanent, so after a year (when Tony is stably sober) she’s quite happy to amicably part ways with them. They move back to Tony’s capital, which has been pretty much running just fine in his absence thanks to Jarvis. Steve becomes captain of Tony’s bodyguards and also founds his school. Tony continues to be weird and make plowshares in his off-time, except somehow they turn out to be self-propelling, and that’s only the beginning of it. 
> 
> Every so often they go visit Rumiko and have a reminiscent threesome in the bathhouse.


End file.
